


Dear Atsumu

by futchka



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (many) references to past atsumu crushes, Adding tags as they come, Canon Compliant, M/M, Slow Burn, generally linear but there's a lot of flashbacks, like Kinda slow burn ig, oh and omigiri is a major part, past unrequited atsuhina, past unrequited sakuatsu, so also kind of non linear, unbeta'd bc this fic is written for an audience of one and that's me babey!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26834866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futchka/pseuds/futchka
Summary: The story of how Miya Atsumu finds Oikawa Tooru, a man who's always been too much, and fits him in the infinite expanse of his heart.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39





	1. Daydream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s here, on the ground, in perfect view of a familiar audience, when his world changes for the fourth time in his life. It’s dramatic wording (even for him), but the funny thing about life-altering moments is that when it comes to Miya Atsumu, they tend to be a lot less flashy and mostly a little bit mortifying.
> 
> “ _Ugh_ — Can you watch where you’re going you—” Atsumu stops in his verbal tracks as he _actually_ recognizes the mop of brown hair previously moussed, now disheveled against the shiny brown tiles of Hinata and Kageyama’s wedding reception venue.
> 
> Because in the moment his world tilts on its axis and topples all its contents over the edge to rebirth its existence anew, Atsumu is busy staring into honey-dipped warm brown eyes that stare back with a fury that scorches him into silence.
> 
>  _Ah,_ he breathes out. _Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah it's here. properly
> 
> to claire, may, lamb, sana, and pav, who put up with me being so ridiculously insufferable over this au
> 
> hope i can do you all justice very soon

It’s not that Atsumu is new to being a little bit stupid.

Arguably, he’s quite familiar with it, though he’d be hard pressed to ever admit it to you. 

Really, he’s ingested so many different flavours of the consequences of his actions, he could probably make a glass case display of all the lessons he should have learned throughout his life. 

Falling in love in high school was the first warning (and in a perfect world, the only one). Falling in love with a member of your volleyball team probably should have been the last one. Falling in love with _another_ teammate would just be depressing if it weren’t more humiliating, for a myriad of reasons mapped out across the atlas of his past.

But, really. Really.

If he learned his lessons in the first place, he wouldn't exactly be finding himself ending up here again. And again. And again.

_(And again.)_

And for all of his glass case display’s worth, he _definitely_ should have known better when he meets eyes with a stranger and an unidentifiable feeling of familiarity jolts and skitters up his spine at a wedding he’s been anticipating as the Official Worst Day of His Life since he got that save-the-date card in the mail three months ago. 

So, here it is. It’s an unforeseen, imperceptible, little sequence of events. It’s frantic and it’s bewildering.

It’s Atsumu racing after the groom in shoes that are way too expensive to be built for that, and it’s him turning the corner after that amber-haired human bullet when he smacks headfirst into a solid chest, losing his vision for a good second before toppling over to the linoleum floor with the very chest he ran right into.

It’s here, on the ground, in perfect view of a familiar audience, when his world changes for the fourth time in his life. It’s dramatic wording (even for him), but the funny thing about life-altering moments is that when it comes to Miya Atsumu, they tend to be a lot less flashy and mostly a little bit mortifying.

“ _Ugh_ — Can you watch where you’re going you—” Atsumu stops in his verbal tracks as he _actually_ recognizes the mop of brown hair previously moussed, now disheveled against the shiny brown tiles of Hinata and Kageyama’s wedding reception venue.

Because in the moment his world tilts on its axis and topples all its contents over the edge to rebirth its existence anew, Atsumu is busy staring into honey-dipped warm brown eyes that stare back with a fury that scorches him into silence.

 _Ah,_ he breathes out. _Fuck._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_A dark weightless space, floating into oblivion without the company of stars twinkling in the distance._

_Sucked into a black hole, with no visual frame of reference to confirm any kind of location, save for the pallor of his translucent self when he looks down at upturned hands._

_Blood flows through the veins underneath his skin, rushing down his arms and gathering into the center of his palm like concentrated_ ki _, but tinted scarlet._

_When he looks up again, he’s standing in the clearing of a woods. The skies remain starless save for a lone twinkle in the distance, surrounded only by trees and foliage, the night air still with the absence of sound. Bright moonlight and no humans in sight, a truth he learns only through the crushing weight of loneliness gathered into the center of his being._

Do you know now? _asks a voice that he had waited with bated breath for._ Do you know who you’ve become?

_No. No._

No! _he wants to spit out._ I’ll never be who you tell me I am. 

_But silence is the only response he’s capable of as the trees continue to grow over him, dim canopy wrenching out every little piece of moonlight he tries to hold tight within his grip as it closes in on itself._

Please, _he screams at the top of his lungs._ Please let me go—

The key to your freedom lies within reach of your fingertips, _the voice tells him as the darkness consumes him._ Now tell me. Are you ready to forgive yourself?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_The quiet of an empty gym. The warmth of an afternoon sun. The zest of a curious Miya._

Not much of a big picture guy, are ya? _Atsumu chuckles, putting cones away._

_Suna halts for a fraction of a second. Atsumu doesn’t miss it, boring holes into his back._

Nah, _Suna concedes casually, chucking a ball into the cart from a meter away. It lands securely with a dull thwack into an opening right in the corner. By the time Atsumu glances back at him, Suna’s facing him directly, which is a pretty rare occurrence in general. Most people tend not to face Atsumu if they can help it, and Suna helps it quite a lot._

Big pictures and big ideas and big shit confuse me, _he states simply. Suna’s face, which is usually a cross between looking like he’s perma-fried and two seconds away from floating away into God’s merciful hands — regards him with a scrutiny that speaks louder than any verbal expression Atsumu has heard from him._

Pretty funny coming from _you,_ though, _Suna finishes. The weapon in his gaze hits Atsumu in the form of a query — one that asks a little less about his intentions and more of the relevance of Atsumu’s existence itself in the context of wherever the hell this conversation is starting to end up. Atsumu finds himself floundering to explain himself for a question that never left Suna’s lips._

_He’d feel indignation any other time, because who is he, the boy with the motivational consistency of a domesticated house cat, of all people to doubt Atsumu’s existential perspective— but all attempts of retort disintegrate on his tongue like pop rocks in the flavour of disconcertment. Suna’s looking at him like he’s breaking the fourth wall of a reality Atsumu doesn’t have the ability to perceive. He sees the words of a printed exam sheet for a ninth grade Literature class, demanding analysis of his inner psychology from an audience Atsumu isn’t allowed to comprehend._

_He doesn’t dare challenge it._

_Instead, he wonders how to place himself in Suna’s field of vision in a way that doesn’t make him seem as much like the crumbling void he feels himself become in that moment._

I see the big picture all the time… _Atsumu trails off, lifting his hand in a pathetic little gesture matching the amount of characteristic as his vocal statement._

_Suna hums in response, nonchalantly turning to wheel the volleyball cart back into the Inarizaki volleyball storage closet, like he didn’t just shut the door of an extra-dimensional understanding of Atsumu’s identity right in his face._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_He’s falling. And falling. And falling._

Gonna get up or what? _Osamu’s voice breaks through the suffocating silence._ We only have five minutes until sch— 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The morning begins like any other, even as he rubs his face in consciously futile attempts to wipe the exhaustion away. 

Why shouldn’t it? His personal despair isn’t the universe’s business. The Earth continues to spin even as Atsumu continues to anguish. The wind blows and the clouds float whether sunlight streams into his life or not.

“—only have five minutes until—” 

“‘Til Akaashi gets here, ‘Samu. I know,” Atsumu cuts in, groaning.

Akaashi will be here in exactly five minutes. Not because Akaashi is punctual, but because _Bokuto_ is.

He’s threading his fingers through his hair with all the vigour of a man who’s way too familiar with hair gel products, maybe even brave enough to get none of it on his expensive clothing. 

Atsumu snorts at himself.

“ _Myaa-sam!_ ” 

And, of course. He’s early. “ _I haven’t seen you in so long!!_ ”

When Atsumu finally finishes gelling his hair and trudges out of the hotel bathroom in a suit, he finds a nearly-suffocated Osamu crushed between the muscular biceps of a sprightly Bokuto as Akaashi stares at an unperceivable spot on the floor, impeccably dressed up and barely conscious on his feet.

Atsumu breathes out at the regularity, calming a bit more. This is his normal. This is his comfort space.

This is his world. This is who he is.

“Didn’t miss me, Bokkun?” Atsumu chides playfully as he files his worries away for later, feeling uncharacteristically merciful towards Osamu this morning. He regrets it only slightly when Bokuto’s eyes gleam with renewed spirit as the outside hitter finally spots him, before taking the other Miya as his new victim. If he squints hard enough, the morning proceeds almost like every other day.

The journey to the reception venue is only slightly depressing. He doesn’t get much opportunity to wallow in sorrow when Bokuto’s chatting up a storm the entire way through and Atsumu can’t help but always find himself wrapped up in his energy. 

There’s so much life to him, and even as Atsumu guffaws at a terrible pun Bokuto makes despite Osamu glaring at the rearview mirror, he can’t help but wonder Bokuto was ever capable of having his soul withdraw into himself.

(If Atsumu allowed himself to think a bit more about himself, he’d probably notice the corners of Bokuto’s eyes crinkle in relief when Atsumu smiles for the first time that morning.)

“Is Shouyou-kun always this… early?” Akaashi asks when they’ve exited Osamu’s van and immediately spot Hinata scurrying around the entrance like he’s individually trying to recreate the rings of Saturn around the venue with the power of heat trailing his hectic footsteps.

Atsumu heaves a breath carrying all the extraordinary weight of a melancholic fondness. “Yeah.” 

The peripheral glance Akaashi throws him is only slightly questioning. Atsumu is thankful for this small mercy, brief as it lasts.

Because standing near the sliding doors of the grandiose banquet hall is Sakusa Kiyoomi, and a Sakusa Kiyoomi in a perfectly tailored blazer and fitted slacks is a lethal Sakusa Kiyoomi — one that Miya Atsumu has no right to die for.

“Omi,” he hears Osamu breathe out behind him, and when (as if by magic) Sakusa knows to face their way, Atsumu shuts all lingering traces of heartache behind his mouth and locks it with a smile perfected to deception.

(One day, he dares to hope, it’ll be able to deceive his own heart too.)

The timid blue of the early morning sky deepens as hours pass by faster than Atsumu can count them. It’s only when familiar faces start to trickle in through the venue doors that the reality of every person who’s impacted him on a volleyball court gathered in one place starts to settle in. 

It’s almost a little exciting, really. A nightmare too beautiful for him to deny.

Irony has always worked a little funny in his favour.

To think that _that_ specific concern would barely last to midday is something he hadn’t even really considered, but the first time it crosses his mind is when Hinata is gripping onto the cuffs of his suit jacket tightly, eyes imploring him as if Atsumu was ever capable of denying Hinata Shouyou a single thing.

“‘Course, Shou-kun,” Atsumu tells him breezily. “As long as I get to keep my Best Man status off-the-record.” He winks.

The blinding smile Hinata grants him could probably let him die a happy death in this very spot in the tiny little Groom’s bathroom.

The group of current and former volleyball players gathered at the entrance to the reception is definitely way too many men for anything productive to occur, but it’s not like Atsumu of all people can offer anything better. He whizzes by them, meandering through known faces in the process of reacquainting themselves with each other to get to the hallway at the corner of the lobby to Shouyou, who he figures probably has it a bit more under control.

Shouyou, as it turns out, does not have it under control.

“Atsumu-san I can’t find it anywhere!” he cries. “How am I supposed to let Tobio know where I am?”

Atsumu clicks his tongue. _If it were me, this would never happen,_ he wants to say. His chest flares with unwanted feelings.

“Didja’ leave it at the hotel?” he asks instead.

“No— I don’t think so? I swear I put it in my suit pocket—” Shouyou stops as a sudden realization lights his eyes up like a downloaded file, making him promptly pivot and race his way back down to the lobby way too fucking fast for his own good. Atsumu blinks, because Shouyou's gone before he can even comprehend it.

“ _Shouyou_ , goddamn it!” he yells as he sprints after the orange little ball of nervous energy. He's not nearly awake enough to kickstart his body that fast.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen the other this restless. The thought rolls bittersweet over his tongue; Shouyou is anxious, of course, because it’s probably the most important day of his whole fucking life — and Atsumu’s got nothing to do with it, no matter how much he tries to tell himself.

But hey, he’s had years to prepare himself for that specific brand of misery. He's had years and years of all the different flavours of heartache anyone ever needs to taste, to feel.

What he _isn’t_ prepared for, however, is accidentally headbutting right into the most unexpected figure of this whole entire _shit._

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” he blurts out as he recognizes the man on the floor beneath him, whose eyes Atsumu cannot stop himself from boring into. They're sucking him right in faster than he can comprehend life, and Atsumu's on an uphill battle to regain his own attention.

“Oikawa Tooru,” he states, as if the man in question had any doubts about his own identity.

“ _What the fuck_?” says Oikawa Tooru.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave comments or critiques!!! they mean a lot to me!!!!  
> thank you to claire for waiting almost six months to finally know who endgame is and not even really get a proper interaction yet lmaoooooo...  
> i have so much to say i am just going to not say anything. my [twitter](https://twitter.com/bokuyaku) (even though everyone reading this is probably only people i have pestered repeatedly).


	2. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exuberance of competition probably doesn’t extend beyond the limits of the court for most, but he’d never been too good at compartmentalizing his passions. 
> 
> Plus, if there’s anyone whose ass Atsumu could light a fire under _just_ from minimal conversation, it would be a man with the resolve to start a new life in a new land with a new tongue purely for the sake of his own cathartic retribution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't given up on this yet i'll finish this goddamn fic even if i'm the last man standing on earth

_“Atsumu-san?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“Do you believe in fate?”_

_When Atsumu turns to look at the golden boy with a question, the shift feels immediate._

_The ever-glowing aura that floats perpetually around him now concentrates itself into two spheres of amber focus within his eyes._

_He’d asked the question, but Hinata wasn’t really looking for an answer._

_He’s facing Atsumu’s general direction and looking at something beyond him. Something much bigger than Atsumu could ever comprehend. Something that’d been determined before Atsumu was bestowed with the spoken words of a question that leaves him reeling with no explanation._

_When he dares to look within those irises, Atsumu sees destiny laid in front of the boy like a blinding forest path sunlit at midday, leading him to his future resting atop a mountain and awaiting in silent faith that Hinata will reach it._

_“No,” Atsumu says, ultimately, even when it makes Hinata blink, the glowing orbs dispersing into thin air._

_Because Atsumu is not at the peak, not even at the foot of it, leading Hinata to the heights promised to him by destiny’s kiss._

_Atsumu simply isn’t there — at most a museum patron standing outside the frames and observing the strokes of a painted story that began long long ago, silently wishing he could have held the brush, just for a second, just even once._

_(To have felt the weight of a chance — no matter how little — within his grasp.)_

_Because the migraine forming inside as he staggers in and out of the bright lights of Hinata’s life is all that exists for him. He can’t see the peak, nor the treeline. He can only see a path, and all he knows he’s not on it._

_There is no such thing as fate. Not for Miya Atsumu._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Shouyou—”

“Promise I’ll make it up to you,” Hinata says with a look that tells him he’d be on the ground pleading if he could, the edges of his pupils wobbling in earnest. “Promise! For real!”

Atsumu can only laugh at the wonder of an expression within his eyes. “Shouyou,” he says as he rests a hand on the sun’s shoulder in an attempt to reflect its sincerity. “I never said no.”

“‘Cause you’re too nice to,'' Hinata blows a strand of hair off his forehead, earning a light smack from Kageyama’s sister to keep still as she fixes the windblown lock. 

Behind them, a duo of men familiar with the groom stand there with eyebrows raised so high in response to Hinata’s comment, Atsumu’s pretty sure they surpass the wedding-themed helium balloons.

“You’re right,” he nods and grins, looking directly at Tsukishima Kei. “I _am_ too nice. And also smart. Right, Shou-kun?”

“Yeah!” Hinata shakes his head vigorously in approval, throwing his orange locks into frenzy. Atsumu bathes in warmth as Kageyama’s sister closes her eyes and breathes, sighing in resignation.

“I’ll get your phone and be back in no time,” he winks. “Tobio-kun won’t even notice a thing.”

“Tobio-kun already knows because Tadashi told him. Since he has his _own_ phone.”

Yamaguchi Tadashi chuckles and pokes Tsukishima from beside him as the blonde bastard smiles back at Atsumu wryly.

As it dawns on them both that they’d spent nearly an hour running around the venue trying to contact Kageyama Tobio with Atsumu’s fully charged and perfectly functional phone in his pocket, he thinks about how if it were any other day, Atsumu would try to hit replay on the way Hinata’s thoughts visibly skid to a stop in front of them as he almost jerks out of the chair, halted only by the solid claws on his shoulders from his soon-to-be sister-in-law that keep him in place.

For a second, Tsukishima looks like he wants to laugh, but when he notices the silent glance Yamaguchi sends him and the anxiety on Hinata’s face, the tall boy’s face settles into a slight frown.

It’s unlike Hinata to be so caught up in himself, Atsumu knows. They _all_ know. It’s evident in the silence. 

It’s a big day for him today after all, and if Atsumu is ever so bold to forget it for just a little while, fate will be right there to remind him that the picture had already been painted, every brush stroke premeditated, a calculated image that leaves him out of the formula. Everything since then was an act of Columbus — simply discovering what's always been there.

“‘Kay,” Kageyama’s sister breaks the sudden quiet. “I’m gonna need you all out of here, save for Tadashi.”

“And _meee_ ,” chimes in Alisa Haiba from the couch, drawing out the syllable harmoniously as she sways a long arm side to side like an over-enthusiastic student.

Her wife snorts. “And you, my oh-so-perfect assistant.”

There’s no protest to the order. Yamaguchi waves at Tsukishima sheepishly as he nods at them in a wordless farewell. 

“What can ya do?” Atsumu says to Hinata, but he’s barely listening. Atsumu sighs and gives him a farewell pat on his shoulder and turns to leave.

“Lis, can you text Asahi to bring some mousse? I’m out.”

“Um, I think they’re out too,” Yachi Hitoka responds in Alisa’s stead as she walks into the ridiculously large dressing room they’re all in. “Azumane-san just asked me to bring some over to them, but I think we might have to call Oikawa-san...”

Atsumu freezes on his way out the door, swiveling to look at the back of her head questioningly. _Oikawa Tooru…?_

Kageyama’s sister swears under her breath, before her eyes land on Atsumu for the first time in his life, narrowing to a single point of focus terrifyingly pinned to exactly where he stands.

“You,” she calls.

“Me?” 

“You’re getting Shouyou’s phone from the hotel, right?”

Atsumu pretends to be deep in thought. 

“Hmm, depends,” he says, tapping his chin as he ruminates. “I’ll consider it if I get a free—“

Wholly ignoring everything to have achieved and approached departure from Atsumu’s mouth, she says, “Do us a favour and get some mousse from Oikawa-san. Room 405, a floor above Tobio’s.” 

She chucks a lanyard at him which Atsumu catches on reflexes that spite his own impudence. 

“Show that and say Kageyama Miwa sent you.”

Atsumu is so confused by the exchange that by the time he can conjure the possibility of asking a question, the door to the dressing room has already long been shut in his face.

_A floor above Tobio’s._ He wrinkles his nose. Does Shouyou not even get to call his own room his? Is the phone Atsumu’s on his way to collect Tobio’s phone too? This entire venue? The whole damn town?

_Shouyou himself?_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“Atsumu-san!”_

_On any other day, absorbing the sunlight is a welcome affair for Miya Atsumu. A reminder of the evidence of life as warmth seeps into skin and brings with it a verve rousing him from morning slumber in inexpressible vitality._

_“He said yes,” Hinata tells him with all the fervor of someone who’s just sealed the doors to a destiny they’d all known he’d conquer. “He said yes. He said_ yes! _”_

_As the rest of the Jackals turn to observe the radiating glow positioned before him, the nonexistent path Atsumu stands on crumbles into gaping nothing beneath his feet._

He said yes. 

_On that day, the blinding lights of Hinata Shouyou burns scorching trails of misery on the surface of his skin, searing up the expanse of forearms devoid of God’s ostensible mercy._

He said yes. 

_As Atsumu watches the rest of his team lift the sun atop their heads to celebrate its rays, he wonders if those three words were the key to the doors of moonlight when Hinata had asked him if he believed in fate._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Oikawa Tooru.

He stares down at the card in his hand with Kageyama Miwa’s stoic face on it and a bright orange _STAFF_ printed underneath, then shakes his head vigorously. 

There’s a vague concern echoing in his subconscious over the nonchalance with which Tobio’s sister hands him her seemingly confidential proof of identification, but Atsumu is way too exhausted and out of his mind to make that his problem when he’s too busy scheming ways to sneak a nap into the day somehow.

So. 

All he has to do is…

...find Oikawa Tooru. And ask for some mousse. Which is easy and totally not weird. 

It’s just _Oikawa Tooru_.

The Oikawa Tooru that’s starting setter for the Argentinian national team with a serve so memorable it makes volleyball players out of spectators, and the _one_ dude out of probably a hundred men in here that he managed to ram into like an enraged bull at 7 o’ clock in the morning.

_The Oikawa Tooru from—_

Nap. He has to get his nap. 

Slipping the lanyard into his pocket, he makes his way around the halls. Osamu’s car keys jingle along as he spins it vigorously around his index finger in an effort to keep his brain awake and engaged for the near future. 

He follows the sound of rushing water on instinct, finding himself on his way to the fountain in the centre of the huge lobby that he barely got to gawk like he’d wanted to.

“Pl- _ease._ ”

The voice stops him in his tracks. He’s heard this before, and it’s that same jolt of familiarity again that renders him immobile.

“Answer’s no,” says another voice familiar to him. "Go ask Iwa."

Atsumu stops right at the bending corner that opens out into the lobby, tightly clutching the keys in his hand. He leans against the wall casually, deciding he’s got enough time to entertain himself just for a little bit.

“ _Yakkun,_ ” There’s a protest. 

“Well, ask again.”

“You know I did. I even asked Makki!”

“Yeah, but it’s funny when they say no.”

Oikawa throws his forearms over Yaku’s shoulders and whines. “ _Please,_ ” he groans as if the spirit of an ancient being departs his body.

Atsumu snorts loudly. _That Oikawa Tooru?_ he questions the little whispering demon living in his brain. Entertained, he is. The vigour in Oikawa’s sniveling at 9 o’ clock in the morning is impressive, to say the least.

“Hey. You.”

Oh, shit.

“I’m talking to you, mustard head.” 

Vivacious and memorable setter-for-Argentina Oikawa Tooru is now looking at Miya Atsumu immediately after having accused him of being a condiment.

Yaku Morisuke, who also spots him before he can entertain the voice telling him to just bite the cookie and hightail it the fuck out of there, waves him over frantically.

“Hey, Mori-kun,” Atsumu calls as he approaches them in a totally casual and non-suspicious way, only internally kicking the inner demon inside him in its mouth. “Need some help?”

“Do me a favour and get this beast off of me,” Yaku orders, pushing at the six-foot-tall-and-more setter caging him within his arms to no avail. 

(Like the world’s most annoying assistant, the demon inside of him asks Atsumu if anyone has ever bothered _asking_ him for favours in his life.)

  
However, Atsumu doesn’t need him to apparently, because Oikawa’s arm slips off of Yaku’s shoulders of their own accord as he rises to face Atsumu fully. 

His Havana brown hair is in disarray, faint signs of what must have been a perfect comb now taking a form akin to movie sets for George of the Jungle.

“ _You,_ ” Oikawa sneers eloquently.

“I can give ya a name if it helps,” Atsumu offers kindly. Oikawa’s eyes narrow.

“ _You did this,_ ” he points at his own face, and Atsumu only then comprehends the entirety of staring at _the_ Oikawa Tooru, who has a smear of red blooming across his left cheekbone accredited to the Atsumu from 7 AM.

(The Oikawa Tooru he is now openly gaping at because it’s now 9:30 and his brain has yet to emerge from within the limits of the empty cave that is his skull and offer literally any form of solace to this indescribably awkward situation.)

Yaku looks between them both as they stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. Yaku then bursts into a cackle both brief and loud.

“ _He’s_ the dude that tossed you like a stack of hay at seven o’ clock in the morning?” he asks with gusto borne from genuine amusement, making Oikawa whip around to face him.

“There were _so_ many ways to phrase that...” Oikawa whines, but Yaku doesn’t hear him, halting abruptly to stare at Atsumu. 

There’s no reason for it, and he’d tried to help it - he really truly did - but the laugh had already bubbled up the confines of Atsumu’s lips at Yaku’s words before he’d realized and poured out of his throat in a volcanic hysterical explosion. 

He’s laughing so hard he has to place a hand against the libero to steady himself, the edges of his vision blurring over with unintended tears that fog the vision of a man he’s been trying to talk himself into erasing from memory for fear of perishing from mortification. 

He _is,_ indeed, the dude who tossed _the_ Oikawa Tooru like a stack of hay at seven o’ clock in the morning.

The laughing stops but the tears don’t, continuing well past the limits of heartiness and teetering towards something akin to mania.

Yaku, who’d graduated from vexation, now eyes Atsumu with concern and a vague sense of alarm that Oikawa apparently seems to share.

Wiping away tears incognizant of the makeup on his face, Atsumu gathers himself long enough to ask the pressing question.

“Can I have some mousse?”

If there was a way for someone to _look_ at something harder, Atsumu thinks the both of them would have stared him into the ground by now. 

“Are you feeling alright, Miya?” Yaku asks earnestly, placing the back of his hand against Atsumu’s forehead. “Why would Oikawa bring that with him to the reception?”

“I’m fine,” Atsumu reassures with a mutter. “And s’not like I know. I’m just followin’ orders here.”

“So… ?” he then prompts Oikawa when there is not a word from the man. “If it makes ya feel better, I won’t touch it.”

“Sincerely,” Oikawa starts, making a point to pause for emphasis. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

“Kageyama-san even gave me the stamp of approval and everything, ‘kay?” Atsumu sighs, holding up the staff pass. “I wanna be here as much as you do.”

Oikawa stares at Atsumu’s hand like he’s never seen anything like an ID card before in his life.

“Okay,” Yaku interjects, miraculously recognizing the face in Atsumu’s hand amidst this mess of a situation before Oikawa can lose his mind completely. “Is this for Hinata? Are you helping Tobio’s sister out?”

When he gets a nod, Yaku sighs with an exhaustion Atsumu has already heard way too many times before.

“I’m pretty sure he’s supposed to be asking your sister,” Yaku says, placing his palm on his own forehead and rubbing it precariously so as not to ruin the immaculate hair in his weariness.

The simultaneous realization dawning on the men now staring directly at each other can only be compared to a video clip of glass shattering in slow motion played in reverse.

“Didn’t know ya had a sister,” Atsumu mutters, surprised by the idea of Oikawa being capable of having a sibling for reasons he cannot logically explain. 

“You don’t even know _me_ ,” Oikawa retorts, donating no additional information to help the cause.

“She’s at the hotel, right?” Yaku interrupts, before a sudden and distinctly satisfied look overtakes him. 

“See, there’s your luck!” he exclaims. He grabs Oikawa by the shoulders and flips him around before pushing the startled man in Atsumu’s direction. 

“Now you can both go there together so _he—_ ” Yaku grabs Atsumu’s right hand ”—can get his mousse while _you_ —” he grabs Oikawa’s left hand _“_ —can get your hair fixed and _I_ —” he links their palms together “—can steal some appetizers for me and my boyfriend to eat.”

He steps back with finality, flashing them both a threatening smile. “In _peace_.”

The situational remains left in their wake are almost palpably silent as Yaku speedwalks around the fountain to escape any potential for protest. An entire minute passes before Oikawa remembers to breathe and shake his hand out of Atsumu’s equally immobile hold.

“I can’t believe Yakkun would betray me like this,” he cries woefully while staring into the general direction of the libero’s escape, as if lamenting to himself in private.

“I mean,” Atsumu snorts in response, gracefully missing the hint. “Have ya _met_ him?”

The look Oikawa returns is enough to quiet Atsumu for the entirety of ten seconds, which is an admirable feat even to Atsumu.

“He was my only hope and you ruined it,” Oikawa says hotly, before deflating like an old balloon.

“What am I supposed to do _now?_ ” he groans. Atsumu blinks at him, perplexed.

“Get in the car?” he asks, jingling the keys in Oikawa’s face like it should’ve been obvious. Oikawa smacks them away before turning to face him fully for the second time that day.

“Do you really think I’m getting in your car not even two hours after you mauled me in front of everyone from high school that I still talk to?” Oikawa bites.

Atsumu’s nostrils flare in a feeble attempt to hold back amusement. Hey, it’s kind of funny when you put it like that.

“Technically, it’s ‘Samu’s car,” he clarifies. “And I’m sure you’ve got a lotta other options right now.”

When Oikawa doesn’t respond, Atsumu’s face sobers. 

“Hey, I’m sorry about runnin’ into ya earlier, okay?” he states in sincerity. “Even if it was for Shou-kun, I was definitely being stupid.”

Oikawa keeps silent but his eyes are trained directly on Atsumu, who suppresses a shiver from the intensity.

“But I really didn’t mean to hurt anybody,” Atsumu adds. “Not you, either.”

Oikawa studies him slowly. Carefully. Like he’s finally choosing to see him properly.

Under the scrutiny, Atsumu finds the wheels of his cognition turning to vaguely yet surely place himself on the volleyball court from one of the most significant days of his life. 

He’s standing in the heart of a raucous crowd cheering in a language he doesn’t speak, heartbeat rising to crescendo as he awaits the moment skin meets synthetic from the other side of the court in a trajectory he won’t predict for the thrill of it.

Adrenaline kickstarts itself in that memory, making his blood rush and setting his nerves on fire in the hunger to compete— to best. 

_To win._

Atsumu swallows. Fuck.

“I mean, it’s not like you were looking when ya walked either,” Atsumu scurries to add, slapping the cognitive smirk to reality onto his face. “But I guess not everybody’s as quick on their feet as me or Shou-kun.”

Oikawa gapes in the disbelief that for a second, he almost took Atsumu seriously. 

“That is a _bold_ way to describe tripping on your feet so hard you make a whole extra person fall,” he fumes.

Atsumu can’t help but grin as the serve finally reaches his side of the court. 

The exuberance of competition probably doesn’t extend beyond the limits of the court for most, but he’d never been too good at compartmentalizing his passions. Plus, if there’s anyone whose ass Atsumu could light a fire under _just_ from minimal conversation, it would be a man with the resolve to start a new life in a new land with a new tongue purely for the sake of his own cathartic retribution.

“Don’t gotta come if ya don’t wanna. All I gotta do is look for somebody in room 405 that looks like ya, no?” Atsumu shrugs like he’s never knowingly provoked anyone in his life. “With better hair, of course.”

Oikawa stands milliseconds away from grabbing Atsumu by the collar. 

“Listen here, cheese-head,” he states like he’s delivering Atsumu his prophecy. “If you leave this parking lot without me, it will be as a dead man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every scene in this chapter starts with a name. now why would op do that
> 
> also guess how long this has been in the drafts... kept complaining about having no time to finish the second chapter because of how long it was getting before my brain finally walked in fashionably late and informed me that i could just divide the damn thing into two part


End file.
